


Desperate Times

by DancingGrimm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Anonymous Sex, Glory Hole, M/M, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: Dorian carefully balances the need to stay hidden while in Redcliffe with the need (because it really is a need) to find a man to have sex with.And because it's Ferelden and everything is sordid and ridiculous, he has to resort to desperate measures.





	

If one travelled enough around Thedas, one would soon learn that every town, city or village, no matter how large or small, would have certain places.

Dorian Pavus had seen them all. 

In his homeland, there were clubs; dingy, sordid places where all those inside pretended desperately that they didn’t recognise one another. Rooms where people could meet one another in private, or rooms that came with slaves. Dorian steered away from the latter, but the former had been a revelation to him, an education both enlightening and devastating.

Orlais had brothels aplenty, patronised by those wearing masks for reasons other than fashion. The whores of the more famous locales became something akin to minor celebrities. It was said that more than one member of the nobility had met their third or fourth or fifth spouse as an ‘entertainer’ in such places.

Then one came to Ferelden, where such organised practices were rare, but in their place was simply… flirtation. Dorian had never known anything like it. People would, with varying degrees of subtlety, flirt in public, where anyone could hear them express their interests. Dorian had overheard hook-ups in progress, men propositioning women, women propositioning men, men propositioning men, women propositioning women, and that was only the iterations that involved just two people! Married couples or committed pairs negotiating with a third party to allow them into their bed. Groups of friends gathered for evenings out which seemed destined from the start to end with them all naked. The casual attitude of them all, the blase indifference to convention, had stunned Dorian.

A part of him screamed that it wasn’t right, even though his heart yearned to one day be able to approach the forbidden subject with such freedom and assurance. The temptation to join this brave new world, to approach an attractive man in public and offer, request, as much or as little as he desired, to fear nothing more onerous than being turned down, was dizzying.

And yet, he stood firm in the face of temptation.

He had promised Felix that he would lie low until they could make contact with the Inquisition on their own terms. They were close now, the Inquisition’s interest and influence creeping ever closer to Redcliffe, even as Gereon’s plans grew ever closer to some sort of completion. Felix was certain that his father had no inkling of Dorian’s presence in Ferelden, let alone the fact that he was practically on their doorstep, and that was how it had to remain. Dorian may turn out to be the only card they held in the end, after all.

Redcliffe was less...welcoming than the other Fereldan towns Dorian had visited over his time on the run. The people were frightened and jumpy, food was scarce, and the local Chantry personnel were overbearing to a degree that Dorian considered put all who had come before them to shame. Add to that the presence of the mages, those poor repressed Southern circle sods, unworldly and adrift and so desperate to convince themselves of their own worth, their own rightness. Their leader, Fiona, confused them all the more, sometimes barking orders, other times drifting around in a barely conscious daze, uncommunicative and pallid. Gereon’s influence no doubt, and Dorian mourned how far the once admirable man had fallen.

As the days ticked by and his hiding spots became increasingly stifling, he saw more and more mages, and even the occasional villager, in the same dull fugue as Fiona. Things were escalating, no doubt, and still not a sign from the Inquisition.

Was it any wonder that Dorian felt he needed to find a place to let off some steam?

*

Everywhere had places like this as well, though Dorian tended to avoid them. Not that he disliked the act involved in itself. It was simply the principle of the thing.

Still, desperate times.

This place was an old stable behind the Gull and Lantern in Redcliffe which had been partly converted into a store room. Some of the horse stalls were still intact, and two of these, adjacent to one another and in the furthest corner from the door, had rough canvas curtains covering their open sides. These curtains were drawn open when Dorian entered, and he was inclined to give a sigh of relief; he always did prefer to be the first to enter such environments. He felt safest when he had a choice of where to set up camp, as it were.

The noise from the tavern swelled as he walked towards the stalls, marking one of the various types of event that the locals generally found cheering. A happy announcement, a fight, a couple screwing on the bar, it was hard to guess in Ferelden. He peered inside one of the stalls and saw, scratched on the wall that divided it from its neighbour, a rather crude drawing of a penis, and an arrow pointing towards the hole. 

He considered his options, and his mood, carefully. 

Then he stepped away and went into the other stall.

He could see the hole a bit more clearly from inside, the limited light cast by the lantern near the door highlighting it somewhat. It was about four or five inches wide, its edges lined with what looked like scraps of leather. It was the ideal height for a person a little shorter than Dorian, but Dorian would make do.

He drew the curtain closed, propped his staff in the corner, sat down in the mercifully clean straw that the stall had been lined with, and prepared to wait.

*

He didn’t have to wait long. The noise in the tavern waned after a short while, and not long after that Dorian heard heavy footsteps approaching the doors to the stable. He tensed with apprehension and anticipation. The stable door creaked open.

“Go back in, nothing’s going to harm me,” a deep voice said in amused tones.

“Shouldn’t be by yourself,” another voice, younger and lighter, responded. “You never know, Chief.”

There was a low boom of laughter, and Dorian started slightly. “You’re gonna stand guard over me while I get my rocks off? Don’t worry so much!”

There were a few more words, not quite loud enough for Dorian to hear, though he could pick out the grumpy tone from the younger man. Another laugh, and then heavy footfalls entering the stable, and the door swinging shut.

Stomach jumping with excitement, Dorian got to his knees and got ready to make himself comfortable.

The man drew near to the stalls and let out a pleased sounding chuckle. The canvas curtain shook a little as he reached out and touched it, making Dorian flinch. But he didn’t open it.

“Hey in there. Hope you’re ready for me,” the man said jovially, and Dorian found himself nodding, uselessly. He told himself the reason he didn’t say anything in reply was because his Tevinter accent would be noticed, not because he couldn’t think of anything to say around the desperation he was feeling.

The man crossed into the other stall, and Dorian heard the curtain sweep shut. There was a movement past the hole, then the other man smoothed his fingers around the edge of it, checking to make sure the wood was well covered. Sensible, given the state of the place.  
His fingers were thick, his skin an odd sort of… pale? Dorian couldn’t quite be sure, the light was so low.

There was a jingle of metal and a rustle of fabric, then a knuckle rapped firmly on the partition.

“You ready for me in there? You tell me if you are.”

Dorian’s head spun for a moment - trying to figure out something to say while also trying to figure out why this man wouldn’t just give him his cock - when it occurred to him to grunt.

“Man of few words, huh?” the voice from the other stall said, amused. “That’s fine. Plenty of them around.”

Then there was a shifting, a slight grunt as the man positioned himself just right, and he pushed his cock through the hole in the partition.

Sweet merciful maker! That was all Dorian could think for a few seconds because he had never seen anything in his life quite as wonderfully, deliciously, terrifyingly tempting as that cock. Huge, yes, oh heavens yes, but so gorgeously well formed. He wrapped his hand around the middle of the smoothly curving shaft, and the heat of it was shocking enough to make him gasp.

Oh maker, he had to see the man this was attached to. 

And that was when he looked up, up to where the light from the lantern shone through the gap above the partition, and cast a shadow of the other man’s head.

Horns.

Oh fucking shit, it was a Qunari. A Qunari! The enemies of his people for generations. Butchers of children on Seheron, murderers of good Tevinter soldiers, destroyers of ships and trade, slavers of mages - 

“You gonna do anything with that hand?” the Qunari asked wryly.

Dorian looked at his hand, still wrapped around that monumental cock. His elegant, skillful hand, touching the lustful flesh of a bloodthirsty oxman. His hot, solid flesh, pulse twitching under the skin, Dorian’s fingertips barely meeting around the girth.

Fuck politics, Dorian decided, and stroked him.

“There we go,” the Qunari crooned, and shifted his hips, rocking his cock forwards into Dorian’s grip. Dorian spread his knees a little, got his feet more comfortably set underneath him, then reached up his other hand and wrapped that around it too. He could fit both fists around the shaft and still see the head peeping out over his thumb and he wished heartily that he had some grease with him because he could surely have slicked himself and gotten into the right position to - well, grease and less filthy surroundings, and it wasn’t likely to happen, but oh! if only.

The Qunari had a soft foreskin that rolled and gathered and smoothed beautifully in Dorian’s grip, sliding against the hard, heavy core of flesh, solidifying it further under his touch. He pumped both hands up and down, letting his thumb slide over the bulging head, and almost moaned when the dim light gleamed against a little bead of liquid that squeezed out of the slit.

“Let me feel your mouth,” the voice from the other stall commanded, and Dorian nodded stupidly, before leaning in and swiping up that bead of liquid with the flat of his tongue. The Qunari groaned softly, sounding like he was smiling. Emboldened, Dorian licked his lips and leaned forward, letting the head push into his mouth.

He would generally brag of considerable skill when it came to fellatio, but that was when he performed it on normal men. This was a different matter. His lips were barely touching the ridge of the Qunari’s glans, and he was already struggling to keep his teeth out of the way like an amateur. Were all Qunari proportioned like this? How on earth did anybody get anything done?

Nevertheless, Dorian Pavus had never been a man to back down from a challenge. Especially not when the challenge tasted like seawater and old wine, and the musk that filled his nostrils made him giddy. 

He opened his mouth wide and slithered the flat of his tongue all around the glans, then flicked the tip hard into the slit. The Qunari grunted, and something thudded into the other side of the partition as he gave a sharp little thrust. Dorian withdrew one hand, gave it a good wet lick, replaced it around the Qunari’s cock. Did the same with the other hand, and linked his fingers together around the shaft.

Then he got down to business.

He settled his lips around the tip as best he could and sucked hard, pumping with his moist hands. The Qunari groaned gratifyingly, cursed (Dorian presumed) under his breath in his strange language. Dorian managed to bob his head a little, forcing his jaw to relax, still pumping his hands with smooth, steady strokes. Little by little, he took more of that cock into himself, until the bulbous head was in his mouth entirely, jaw muscles aching with effort.

“Fuck that’s good,” the Qunari grunted. “You’re real good at this, huh? Do it a lot?”

Dorian wasn’t sure if the other man expected him to answer, but having just got going he wasn’t about to back off just to grate out a ‘yes’.

The Qunari groaned again, and a little surge of bitter juice ran into Dorian’s mouth. “Wish I could see you, bet you look gorgeous with your lips stretched round my dick,” he growled. His voice was low and increasingly gruff and Dorian couldn’t quite make himself care that his words were so abominably coarse. He bobbed, stroked, tongued, getting more into his mouth with every dip forwards, the fat head pressing his tongue down and pushing into his pallette. There was drool running down his chin, but he didn’t care. 

There was another thud on the other side of the partition; the Qunari must have slapped his hand against the wood. “Really gettin’ it into ya, huh?” he said. “Feels great. But you know what I’d really like to feel?”

Dorian froze. This was it, the mood killer. He hated mid-coitus critique.

“I’d like to feel you take one of those nice, hot hands off me, and put it on yourself. Will you do that for me?”

Oh no, that was the opposite of a mood killer. Dorian had been ignoring his own needs in favour of focusing his attention on the challenge at hand, quite accustomed to finishing himself off after his partners. But at the Qunari’s words he became abruptly and painfully aware of his own erection, and the severe discomfort of it trapped as it was in his stylish but unforgiving leathers. A little strained sound escaped his throat, and he reached one hand down with sudden desperation to scrabble at the lacings of his clothes.

The Qunari gave a wry chuckle. “Good boy,” he murmured. Dorian pulled his mouth off him for a few seconds to take a deep breath while his hand burrowed through layers of fabric (why did he wear such awkward clothes?) and finally wrapped around his aching cock. Goal accomplished, he dove back in, sucking that delicious, thick cock back into his mouth as deeply as he could, shivering with pleasure as both his hands stroked and squeezed hard flesh.

“There we go,” the Qunari sighed happily. “Feel good? Feels fucking fantastic to me. Not many people who can get so much of me in their mouth.” He paused to let out a good, throaty groan, a luscious rumble that Dorian swore he could feel vibrating through the floor under his knees. He remained more or less still as Dorian worked at him, giving a little roll of his hips every now and then, grunting and muttering little fragments of encouragement and praise.

Dorian wanted one of those big hands in his hair.

As if he’d read his mind, the Qunari suddenly snarled out; “Fuck this wall!” and slapped his hand against the wood again. “Wish I coulda’ picked you up in the tavern. Would...woulda’ taken you to one of those rooms they got. Would you like that?”

His voice was hoarse and breathy, and Dorian had to struggle with himself to decide whether to pull off and answer. 

“I’d hold onto your head, watch your pretty lips...fuck!” A gurgling moan escaped Dorian’s throat as the Qunari pressed his hips to the partition, his cock shoving its way incrementally deeper into Dorian’s mouth. His hands tightened and he worked his jaw open wider with all his might, feeling that thick cockhead pressing at the top of his throat.

“Oh yeah,” the Qunari moaned, his words drawn out like he was drunk. “I’d want to fuck you, slick you up and slide into you and - fuck! fuck! - oh damn, I’d treat you so good!”

Dorian was shivering and he wasn’t sure when it had started, but the Qunari’s voice was lusciously alluring, saying exactly what he wanted to hear. His jaw hurt and his knees hurt and he was so close to orgasm that it was like agony.

“I’d spread you out and make you feel so fucking good it’d bring tears to your eyes,” the Qunari gritted out. “Oh damn, here it comes. You ready?”

Dorian felt the first deep throb in the Qunari’s flesh in the same moment that his own orgasm began its inexorable assault on him, and he was spilling his own semen into the straw between his knees as the Qunari’s glugged into his throat. He gulped and gulped, swallowing its warmth down into himself, thick droplets spilling from the corners of his lip despite his best efforts. The Qunari was panting loudly, maybe moaning, it was hard to tell over the thrumming of Dorian’s pulse in his ears. 

After wonderfully infinite moments, the pulses of semen thinned and stopped, and Dorian’s hands relaxed. He was still cradling the Qunari’s cock in a loose grip, still nursing dazedly at the head, for some little while after it was over. Finally though, the Qunari pulled away from him, making gentle shushing noises in his deep, tired voice. Dorian could hear soft rustling, the jingle of metal, as the other man rearranged his clothes.

“That was fucking fantastic,” the Qunari told him after a moment. Dorian nodded again. He couldn’t quite bring himself to move, collapsed on his knees in the straw, his softened cock hanging out of the fly of his leathers.

“Hey, you okay?” the Qunari asked, and rapped his knuckles against the partition. “Talk to me.”

“Y-yeah,” Dorian croaked. “Okay.”

“Wear yourself out, huh?”

“...yeah.” You wore me out, Dorian thought. All your fault, you brute.

“That was the best head I’ve had in… fuck, I don’t even know.” The Qunari sighed and, it sounded like, shook himself. “You want to leave first, or shall I?”

“You,” Dorian said, voice scraping out of him. Maker, he was going to be in pain tomorrow.

“Sure. Thanks gorgeous.”

‘Gorgeous’? They hadn’t even laid eyes on one another. He supposed the Qunari thought he was being nice. Rather than accurate.

He waited until after the swish of the canvas curtain, the thud of boots across the floor, the creak of the door falling closed. Sounds from the world beyond the little stall began filtering into his hearing again. There was loud, bawdy singing coming from the tavern now. A giggly ruckus from outside the stable suggested somebody else close at hand was getting lucky.

Dorian heaved himself up from the floor, aching in his legs and shoulders and jaw and neck and - hell - just aching. He pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his face, running his fingers over his skin and facial hair, searching for traces of stickiness, until he was certain he’d gotten rid of all the semen. He laced up and smoothed down his leathers, brushing away the straw and dust, wiping up an errant splatter of his own semen. He tweaked his moustache back into shape, and wiped his fingers around his eyes to ensure his kohl was neat.

Something of an experience. He’d never specifically wanted to have sex with a Qunari, but...well, it was one thing to tick off the list. Not that he actually had a list.

Wonderful cock though, really top rate. And he wouldn’t forget that voice in a hurry either.

Feeling as much like himself again as he was likely to achieve in such inauspicious surroundings, he left the stable and set off back to his temporary hide-out with a spring in his step.

*

The Chantry sizzled with stray magical energy, thrillingly odd and so enticing as a potential study. 

“Fascinating,” he told the Inquisitor, tearing himself away from the gleaming remnants of the rift. “How does that work, exactly?”

Her face, showing tiredness and excitement both under her colourful Vitaar, slackened as she visibly tried to come up with words.

“You don’t even know, do you,” Dorian teased. “You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.” The study this needed, the experiments! 

“Who are you?” she asked, not unreasonably.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see,” Dorian replied, his mother’s voice inside his head scolding him for his poor manners. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Watch yourself,” came a deep voice from the shadows of the Chantry aisles. “The pretty ones are always the worst.”

For a second, Dorian froze right down to his core. Because he knew that voice. Recognised it perfectly. And has he looked more carefully at the hulking figure covering the Inquisitor’s right flank, he was quite certain that those were the very horns that had cast that striking shadow on the ceiling of the stable, just last night.

He blurted out something banal about suspicious friends, and began wondering quite seriously why the fuck he’d ever agreed to Felix’s plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was a pleasant little brain fart. My first foray into DA:I, and hopefully not my last. I do hope you enjoyed it.  
> Please leave feedback if you have time, I'd very much appreciate it.


End file.
